One Blood (7 page)

There was less noise than Kella had expected. Patched-up tractors, bulldozers and chainsaws all waited beside the track to be moved inland. The area had an oddly unfinished and temporary look. On the edge of the logging camp he could see a 350-horsepower Cummings engine still in its marked containers, and the prefabricated units of a steel barge waiting to be assembled. The whole area was so haphazardly constructed, and with such little regard for hygiene or protection from fire, that Kella instinctively stooped and smeared his arms and legs with mud from the mangrove swamp as some sort of protection against the malarial mosquitoes that he knew instinctively would proliferate viciously in such conditions of neglect.

Two groups of men were standing facing one another in the rough undergrowth at the beginning of the track leading inland between the trees. One of the groups comprised forty or fifty sullen Malaitan men in lap-laps or shorts. The other was made up of a dozen white technicians, probably Australians. With a sinking heart, Kella saw that some of the latter, for the most part weedy specimens, were carrying rifles. To make matters worse, it did not look as if many of them were familiar with the use of the weapons. None of the white men was relishing the situation. Kella had met others like them on the handful of expatriate-owned cattle farms, copra plantations and fish-canning operations among the islands. These were mostly drifters, aimless fugitives from the law and domesticity, possessing minor engineering skills meaning nothing back home in Australia but which were still sufficient to earn them a comfortable living in some Third World countries. For the most part they were unprepossessing physical specimens, but their rudimentary sense of survival, honed in many similar situations across the Pacific, was sufficient for them to know that at this moment they were in danger of being overrun by the incensed Malaitans.

Kella increased his pace towards a big white man wearing unpressed grey trousers and a once white vest, who was standing angrily a little in front of the other expatriates, expostulating with the sullen Malaitans. He was the only whitey in the group making any effort to confront the resentful islanders. He was a ruined avalanche of a man in his forties, some six feet six inches in height and broad-shouldered, but with all his physical attributes beginning to melt and sag downwards. Jowls swung from his chin like wind chimes, and a once impressive chest had slumped obscenely to his stomach. While his body drooped, the big man’s face seemed to have a life of its own and had expanded sideways, although at the same time his features had shrunk to those of a carelessly constructed snowman, with two buttons for eyes, a truncated carrot of a nose and a mouth that was little more than a perfunctory slash. His head was completely bald. He reminded Kella of an extra in an Ed Wood horror movie. He glanced briefly at Kella as the policeman approached him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded in an Australian accent.

‘I’m Sergeant Kella, British Solomon Islands Police. I’ve come about the vandalism on your station.’

‘I’m Jake Michie, the logging manager,’ said the Australian abstractedly, not taking his eyes from the Malaitans before him. ‘What’s the matter, don’t I deserve a white officer?’

‘Believe me,’ Kella told him, summing up the situation, ‘the last sort of policeman you want now is a white one.’

‘Is that so? Well, black or white, you’ve chosen a bloody bad time to get here. As you may have noticed, I’ve got a bit of a mutiny on my hands at this precise moment in time.’

Kella looked over at the
wantoks
. They were ominously quiet. If this had been a normal work dispute, the demands, insults and accusations would have been flying through the air by now. But the islanders, most of them young and rope-muscled through years of harsh manual work, were plainly preparing for a fight.
These were the itinerant labourers of the islands, with no land of their own at home, a close-knit industrial force that toured the Solomons restlessly, picking up work wherever it could. These Malaitans, and others like them, forced to leave their own overcrowded island, usually toiled hard and uncomplainingly for their meagre pay and uncaring employers. It would have taken an important matter of principle or custom for them to down tools like this. They were plainly disturbed by something that had happened. If they decided to charge, the Australians with firearms might possibly be misguided enough to pluck up enough resolution to shoot. The gods only knew what the consequences would be if that happened.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Kella.

‘I don’t have any idea. The first thing this morning the bastards refused to go into the bush to saw trees down. They wouldn’t give me any reason.’

‘You probably didn’t ask them in the right way,’ said Kella. ‘Wait here. And tell your men to put their rifles down. If the Malaitans rush you, they won’t get off more than a couple of shots before you’re all overwhelmed.’

Michie hesitated, but nodded. Without another glance at the hapless technicians, Kella walked across the sand-dusted scrub to the labourers. He had been recognized. A murmur of greeting tinged with awe reached him. He had already picked out the probable leader of the Malaitan workers, a slightly older man with greying hair and a steady gaze. He stopped in front of him.

‘Hello,’ he said respectfully in the Lau dialect. ‘My name is—’

‘Everybody knows the
aofia
,’ said the older man. ‘I am Zoloveke. You are a long way from the artificial islands. Have you come here to do whitey’s work for him?’

These Malaitans were a particularly tough and cynical bunch. Their itinerant lives kept them away from their homes for months and even years at a time. They would treat many of
their traditional leaders and authority figures with scepticism, and would not be easy to convince.

‘If you know that I am the
aofia
, then you will know that my duty is to keep the peace among Malaitans,’ said Kella. ‘That is why I have come to Alvaro, just in time, I think, to see you preparing to chew on rifle bullets. What is the problem? Why haven’t you started work yet? Are you so tired that you have decided to work the white man’s hours?’

The Malaitan snorted contemptuously at the implied jibe. ‘The first work party that left to go into the bush this morning met a kwisi bird,’ he explained. ‘It spoke only once. Do you know what that means?’

‘Of course,’ said Kella, comprehending the problem with some relief. The matter was serious, but not as grave as he had feared. ‘I may have spent many years away from Malaita at the white man’s schools, but I still remember our customs. Leave this with me.’

He walked back to the big Australian. ‘They have had a custom sign warning them not to work this morning,’ he said.

‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ exploded the big man. ‘What those
kanakas
want is a boot up the backside!’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Kella. ‘Those men are Malaitans, the fiercest warriors in the Solomons.’ He raised his voice so that the technicians could hear him.

‘You lay a hand on just one of them, and you and every one of your men will be dead on the beach before the sun rises further over the trees, and I’ll have a hundred forms to fill in afterwards. I doubt if you’re worth it.’

The panic-stricken technicians started muttering. Kella raised his voice to explain. ‘The first Lau party to leave the camp this morning saw a kwisi bird flying towards them. That’s a grey bird about the size of a blackbird. It’s always chattering. But this particular bird cawed only once. That was the sign that worried them. With reason.’

‘What bloody sign?’ asked an exasperated Michie.

‘A single note from a kwisi bird means “No!” or “Turn back!” It’s a warning. In the old headhunting days, if a war party came upon a kwisi bird that spoke only once, they would abandon their expedition, no matter how important it was nor how far from home they might be, and turn back and refuse to fight. That still applies today.’

‘Then how the hell am I going to get them back to work?’ demanded Michie. ‘So far this year we’ve been delayed by rain, mechanical breakdown, shortages of materials and a bunch of so-called skilled workers who don’t know their arses from their elbows.’ He glared at the unkempt white men behind him. ‘I’ve got a schedule to keep!’

Kella took his opportunity. ‘I might be able to help,’ he told the Australian. ‘Of course, I would expect your cooperation with my investigation afterwards.’

A gleam of reluctant respect appeared in the big man’s eyes. ‘You would, would you, Sergeant?’ he gritted. ‘All right, go ahead. Sort them out, and at least I’ll give you the time of day afterwards.’

‘First I must persuade them to take me to their temple in the trees, the
faata abu
.’

‘You’re wrong about that, for a start. They don’t have a temple,’ growled the Australian triumphantly. ‘I’ve been here eighteen months and I’ve never seen one.’ He looked at the men behind him. ‘Have any of you jokers?’

The others shook their heads.

‘That’s because they’ve never let you see it,’ said Kella, walking away. ‘Stay here. And leave those rifles alone.’

He reached the Malaitans. ‘Do you want to go back to work?’ he asked Zoloveke, the leader.

‘Only if the signs are right,’ replied the older man. ‘We will not ignore the
faata maea.
’

He was referring to the unfavourable omen known in pidgin
as
show death
. Kella nodded understandingly. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to. Suppose I can lift the curse?’ he asked. ‘Will you go back to work then?’

Zoloveke conferred briefly with the men nearest him. ‘If the ceremony is performed properly,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘We know that you have been given the power to do that.’

‘Then take me to your
beu aabu
,’ said Kella. ‘Not all of you; what I am about to do is not for everyone to see. Choose half a dozen men to come with us.’

The custom temple was half an hour’s walk away through the outer ring of trees. There was no path through the densely matted undergrowth, but Kella could see that unobtrusive strands of red drachmae plants had been secured to the boles of some of the trees to indicate a route already prepared through the bush. Such signs would have meant nothing to any expatriates who strayed into the undergrowth. They struggled through knee-high grass, disturbing clouds of small yellow butterflies, which scudded ahead of them.

The temple, when they encountered it, was simple, consisting of little more than a one-roomed hut of sago palm thatch lashed together with creepers, under a sloping roof supported by posts. The opening in the front of it was only a few feet high, meaning that a man could only enter on his hands and knees, thus showing due deference to the holiness of the building. In front of the
beu
was a round flat flintstone to represent the outdoor altar. Detritus of ashes and charred sticks on its surface showed that sacrifices had been made there quite recently. On the ground around the altar were scattered minor offerings of yams, taro and twists of tobacco. Kella knew that inside the place of worship would be a collection of clubs and spears, all plaited with red and yellow vines to show that they had been dedicated to the gods. Being itinerants, the labourers would have no priest among them, and would be forbidden from practising all but the most basic ceremonies before the
spirit people, otherwise he would never have been shown this sacred spot. Even now, he knew that he would not be granted much time in which to lift the curse. The spirits did not like temples that did not have permanent custodians. They would not go out of their way to assist him.

Before he made his approach to the altar, Kella stopped and opened his rucksack. He took out a well-worn sacred bag containing his own holy relics and attached it by a swathe of cloth to his head. Next he brought out a handful of areca nuts from the bottom of the rucksack, moving deliberately so that the Malaitans, watching his every move intently, could see what he was doing. He was aware of their impressed gasps as he prepared to start his ritual. Only a custom priest of the highest rank and in great favour with the ghosts would be allowed to hold in his hand so many areca nuts, the favourite food of the gods, without being struck down for sacrilege.

Impatiently Zoloveke gestured to the Malaitans to stand back while Kella approached the altar and abased himself before it. He ought to make a fire and burn some of the areca nuts, so that the scented smoke would attract the spirits, but he did not have time. Reaching up, he scattered the yellow husks of the nuts on top of the flintstone. The shell of a ripe areca nut was so hard as to be almost impenetrable, reflecting the inviolate manner of their faith and the supremacy of the gods. As he did so, he chanted the names of the first
aofias
of Lau: Maruka, Vuvura, Fili’ei, Solubosi and Lauvanua.

‘He is eating the ghost,’ murmured Zoloveke to the others, proud of his knowledge of ancestor worship. ‘The
aofia
is sacrificing to the spirits on our behalf. He is putting himself at risk for us.’

Sweat started pouring down Kella’s face from the mental and physical exertion of his incantations. The kwisi bird had warned the Malaitans not to go into the deep bush. That meant that the war gods who protected these Lau people far
from home were angry and must be appeased by the wholehearted intervention of a high priest.

‘
Ma ni kobu’ana hato
,’ he cried, begging the gods to accept the areca nuts.

He depicted himself as being unworthy to enter the temple despite his high standing on earth:
‘Toto taa’I nau.
’ He praised the war gods:
‘Ramo oliolita.
’ He thanked them for guarding the Malaitans on the island by sending the kwisi bird to warn the working party that morning:
‘Ramo vei ngwane na.
’ He begged them to send a sign that it was now safe for the labourers to resume work:
‘File bare ngwane I Afeafea.
’ Finally he prayed for the future of the temple, that it might stand as a monument to the war spirits for many years:
‘Agalo I mae.
’

When he had finished, Kella stood up. Briefly he clutched at a tree for support, and then, when the dizziness had worn off, he walked back to the waiting Malaitans.